Odi et Amo
by kiohates
Summary: Hareton only scowled more deeply. "I don't guess you'll ever teach me…" He murmured quietly, not yet quite realizing he had voiced what he meant only as a private thought. Slash, Hareton/Linton. Don't like, don't read. Seriously, don't read this.


**Warnings?** _Slaaaaaaaaash. Slash. _Slash!I deeply apologize for this drivel.

….

Linton Heathcliff was a well educated and of an intelligent sort, though more than a bit spoiled and frail. While he prided himself on his vast intellect as compared to his boorish cousin Hareton, he too was sheltered and therefore ignorant of the world that lay beyond the relative comfort of the indoors. He did not appreciate the first spring breeze and the breath of life it gave to the foreboding ice-bound moors. He did not know where the larks and the robins made their nests; he had never gazed upon the delicate strength of a baby chick as it broke out of paper thin eggshell walls.

That was rather how Hareton thought of him—a squalling chick, alone in its nest, bereft of his mother and of hardly any kindness in Wuthering Heights. He did not begrudge a chick for crying, and likewise, he tried his best to tolerate even the most selfish of Linton's plaints. It was difficult, of course, especially with the downright antipathy Master Heathcliff held for him, but for whatever reason—pity, loneliness, or genuine like, Hareton wanted to do his best to be kind to the other boy.

There was one thing that Hareton wished could be different between them, however; Linton still called him Earnshaw. He wasn't sure when that began to bother him, but there it was. From the beginning there was no chance of Hareton referring to Linton by his surname, not out of familiarity, but because of the dissimilarity between him and the master. Still he wished that the other boy might call him by his given name to show some appreciation or as a sign of friendship to return that which Hareton gave to him so freely. True, they were far from the best of friends, and the vast majority of their interactions were characterized by name-calling and insults, still, Linton was the closest approximation of a friend Hareton had ever had. He had never spoken much to the people in town, or the people he saw in church. Growing up, his only influences had been the strange pair of Heathcliff and Joseph. He only sometimes recalled his father, Hindley Earnshaw, and only in night terrors as a child, at that.

Based on Linton's typical conduct alone Hareton never could have guessed the true extent of Linton's appreciation for the other boy's company, but it was surely greater than what he felt for anyone else. No one besides his late mother had ever paid him any mind, and it was worse now, living under Heathcliff's neglect. They were all they had.

And though Linton scorned what he considered an uneducated and low class accent, he found that in Hareton's mouth, the Yorkshire pronunciation sounded different. Words rumbled low and gentle in his throat, soothing Linton's normally jagged nerves. It almost reminded him of how his mother would sing or read to him when he was younger—although, that comparison wasn't quite right… with Hareton, it was different somehow. Sometimes, when they were together, he would get a strange feeling—hot and cold in way that had nothing to do with room temperature, and in a way very unlike sickness… No, he decided, that was not like listening to his mother at all. He wondered if it might be like listening to a girl, a proper girl, read or talk to him, if it would feel the same. A girl like Cathy, he thought—although Catherine and Hareton weren't anything alike, either.

"Earnshaw!" He called out, hoping for a conversation to yield some entertainment.

"Yes," responded Hareton warily, already expecting some new offense to be thrown at him.

"Do you wonder… do you think it'd be nice to talk with a girl? Do you think they'd sound very nice?"

"Not if they're like Miss Cathy" spat the boy. Linton watched his cheeks darken as he likely remembered the incident of being ridiculed for his illiteracy earlier, and he had the decency to feel a bit bad about it all. The two of them fought together often to be sure, but Linton knew the darker boy would bend to him, like a reed in a gale, in almost all matters. Around their cousin Catherine, however, they couldn't seem to find restraint when baiting each other and would end up rowing more than was healthy for Linton, frail and sickly as he was.

Thus attributing their unusually cruel behavior to the presence of Miss Cathy, he felt absolved enough of guilt to dismiss his pithy regret, and enjoy once again the hold he had over the other boy. The flush on his tanned cheeks had not yet receded much, and he stifled a grin at the thought of how easily his manipulations worked on the other.

"No, she's not very polite always, is she?" He bit his tongue to avoid the words _but you wouldn't know much about restraint would you, Earnshaw?_. He needed Hareton on his side, after all—as no one else could stand to be. On a whim deciding to see how deeply he could embarrass the boy he asked, "So I don't suppose you've ever kissed a girl"

Hareton gave him a look. How could he have, barely leaving the mansion, except for work, and having only Joseph and Heathcliff for company? Hareton, while uneducated, was not an idiot. He knew Linton only wanted to get a rise out of him, and if it amused him, he didn't mind it—much. Still, he wouldn't take the abuse lying down.

"And Ah s'ppose you have, puling chicken that yah're"

"Perhaps. But at least _I_ know how it's done."

"And Ah reckin you were taught, jes like book-larning," He sneered halfheartedly.

"Oh but don't be jealous Earnshaw, it makes your dim face look so horrid."

Ignoring him, Hareton only scowled more deeply. "Ah don't guess you'll ever teach me…" He murmured quietly, not yet quite realizing he had voiced what he meant only as a private thought.

Linton reared up from his supine position in shock. "_Teach you_?" He repeated incredulously. His face grew red from embarrassment and he nearly began to have a fit, so suddenly did the passion come upon him. Hareton was at his side in a moment, soothing him, rubbing circles into his back and shoulders. It frightened him badly, to see those fits, and it was enough to distract him from any feelings of resentment he might have had a moment before. He had been referring to learning his letters, of course, and he almost started to tell him so, but he wasn't sure that the other boy could hear him.

"Linton? Linton, ease up. Ah won't ask again… I didn't even mean it. It's… it's not import'nt t' me, really." He mumbled, but with disappointment evident in his tone.

Linton looked over his cousin appraisingly. Hareton, he thought, testing the name out in his mind, thinking how the name would drop from his lips. He was afraid of the reaction of his father should he find them together—like that—but even for a coward of his caliber, some risks were worth taking.

Sitting up in bed, with Hareton resting on his knees beside him, they were staring at each other at a fairly even height. Linton nearly laughed, ruining the quiet moment at the dumbly concerned look that graced Hareton's countenance. Did he even know what he was asking, or what they were about to do? He threw away his stalling thoughts in favor of reckless action. He leaned forward, stealing Hareton's breath in a sweet, chaste kiss. Then recalling what he'd first read about kissing in a book, and what he had heard from his Mama's many adult friends back in London, he went further, teasing the other boy with small nips of his mouth and alternating licking and sucking his bottom lip between his own. He settled against Hareton's strong chest with one hand between them on the bed and the other cupping his face, feeling the thin scratchy beginnings of stubble against his own fair, soft skin. It felt better than he ever would've imagined—not that he'd actually had any prior experience to compare—it felt _good_. He did what he thought felt pleasurable and judging by the way the other boy hadn't yet fled in disgust, he must've been doing something right.

The moment lengthened and ended naturally. He pulled away, eventually, to study his cousin's face. His lips were bruised red and his flush had crept to his ears and neck. He reflected briefly that it wasn't funny anymore, seeing him flustered. Instead, right then, it was… intriguing. He wanted to press his face against the other boy's heated skin, to feel the warmth of his robust strength. He had no idea what he was doing thinking such things, they were both boys after all, but that so far hadn't seemed to matter much.

"Hareton," he sighed softly, his breath hot and moist, his mouth a fingers width away from the abused flesh of the other's lips.

True to form, his cousin startled out of his dazed expression with great agitation. Confused and feeling sickly burning shame pool in his stomach, Hareton stumbled up quickly, too quickly, and only succeeded in knocking their heads together. Linton fell back stunned, his vision obscured by flashes of light. Hareton stood in the middle of the room, torn between fleeing and helping the obviously hurt boy. He saw the light catch in Linton's watering eyes, and resigned himself to stay.

Although it was probably a bad idea, he sat next to the boy on the bed, and gently stroked hair out of his face. "Linton… Ah, well, Ah'm sorry, Linton, but ye—Ach, don't cry, ye—don't"

"I'm not crying!" protested the boy rather dishonestly. "You surprised me, that's all" Hareton snorted tactlessly.

"Ah think Ah shoulda bin sayin that"

Linton grinned back at him shyly.

"I'd like to teach you anytime, Hareton"

"Ye will? Really, ye will, Linton? Teach me my letters?"

Linton paused for a beat, Hareton's words clicking into place, before erupting into hysterical laughter. _The sod wanted to learn to _read_?_ He laughed until tears ran down his face, knowing that it was his own fault for letting his boredom prompt him to begin something so outrageous between them. Still, it wasn't all bad; in fact, he thought he might have found a brand new source of entertainment.

Hareton watched his cousin somewhat concernedly, and tried not to flinch when in his mirth Linton favored him with a sloppy kiss on the cheek; he was clearly mad. There was no helping it however—Hareton began to think that he too must have been descending into lunacy, as he was drawn by a force he could not name to kiss the tear tracks from pretty Linton's cheeks.

…..

I don't think this can be continued. It's caused me enough mental anguish for now.


End file.
